​she loves me,
she loves me knot
petals fall
in childhood rituals
distant memories
one and all
where flowers
sacrificed
at the altar
of dreams,
are somehow
more beautiful
disassembled,
or pressed
into albums,
or so it seems
I got to
the last petal
and racing it
to the ground
one teardrop—
falling
at the
speed of sound
Why else the silence?
she loves me not.

M. Zane McClellan

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